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by Tierfal



Series: Leading the Blind [6]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Canon: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood, Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 03:02:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1064972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tierfal/pseuds/Tierfal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even the honesty game and a supremely awkward museum party can't break Ed's stride these days.</p>
            </blockquote>





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**Author's Note:**

  * For [dragonimp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonimp/gifts).



> A very late birthday present for Jenny~ ♥
> 
>  
> 
> ~~Which would not have been _quite_ as late if I was less dumb and had just posted it when I finished it at the start of NaNo, but here we are. XD~~

Ed picks up the pile of glowing papers in Roy’s lap, deposits them on the coffee table, lays down across Roy’s knees, gets cozy, retrieves the papers, sets them down on his own stomach, and wrangles his book off of the couch arm to hold it up to read.

There is a long pause.

“Good evening, my dear,” Roy says. “What are you reading?”

“Shit,” Ed says.

“Ah.”

“Shit Winry sent.”

“Ah.”

“Shit Winry sent to be the bane of my existence because she’s an evil mastermind hellbent on my slow and agonizing destruction.”

“Tragic.”

“Uh huh.”

Roy lifts the papers, shuffles them a bit, aligns the edges, and carefully leans forward over Ed, reaching out to find the edge of the table in order to return them to safety.

“Edward,” he says as he straightens, “are you holding the book above your face again?”

“Possibly,” Ed says.

“You’re going to ruin your eyes.”

“Bullshit,” Ed says. “They’re fine.” It’s true; Mom used to say that—albeit gently—and he never stopped, and his eyeballs have never once rolled back into his head or turned to goo. “Besides, if I did, we’d match.”

“Perish the thought,” Roy says, and it’s the Suave Voice, but there’s an unusual softness—a sad kind of soft.

It kind of took Ed a while to notice that softness, because when he’s happy he’s _fucking happy holy shit_ ; and when he’s not, it’s the end of the world, and the sky is pouring down acid rain and dead things, and the thunder’s splitting houses into so much kindling. Ed doesn’t really _do_ middle ground.

Roy does. Roy can be contented and tired and amused and stressed as hell and miserable, _simultaneously_. Roy can be overall completely calm and pleased, but with this tiny streak of heartache like the white insidiously working its way into his hair. Roy _is_ happy—Ed had a couple of fucked-up, bottomless-pit-angry-spiteful-shitty days when he’d caught on to the sadness but hadn’t figured that out. The baseline is that Roy’s _good_. He’s _okay_. But there’s something in him most times that’s still a little bit… broken.

The thing is, Ed’s realized by now that he can do better than loving the stupid bastard despite it. He can love him _for_ it. He can love him _because of_ it. The broken thing is part of Roy, and Roy is part of _him_.

“All right,” Ed says. “Fine. Hang on.” Laboriously, and not without a few false starts, he manages to roll over without either dropping the book or elbowing Roy in the crotch, both of which would have put a snarl into his longer-term plans for this evening. The angle isn’t quite as superlative with the book resting against the arm of the couch and his arms folded on the cushion, and if he moves too much Roy’s kneecap digs into his hip, but love seems to fall at the juncture of commonality and compromise, and with that in mind it’s not so bad. “Happy now?”

“Delighted,” Roy says. There’s a pause the length of two unspoken sentences, and Ed can practically hear the unused syllables collecting on the tip of Roy’s tongue. “My love,” Roy says, and Ed’s spine tingles, “I must confess to an ulterior motive.”

“ _You_?” Ed says. “Unthinkable.”

“Well,” Roy says, smoothing a hand slowly down over the small of Ed’s back and settling it rather unambiguously on his ass, “a _posterior_ motive. But who’s counting?”

The speed of Ed’s retorts is forty percent slower with Roy than with anyone else on the planet because his mouth goes dry so much. “Uh. Where’s Al?”

“Study group.”

“Y’don’t say.”

“Mm.”

“He say when he’ll be back?”

“Late,” Roy says, lightly.

“No kidding.”

“None whatsoever.”

Ed makes a valiant effort at contorting around to watch Roy’s face without displacing the talented hand currently running a thumb slowly up and down his ass. “Can I give the dog a treat so we can lock her out of the bedroom without feeling bad?”

“I won’t tell Lieutenant-Colonel Hawkeye if you don’t,” Roy says.

“Deal,” Ed says, and since love is also about sacrifice, he forsakes the beauty of Roy’s hand on his ass in favor of scrambling up to shoo all the pets away from the Sex Cave.

Hitomi gives him a skeptical look as he offers her one of the little treats they have to bribe Al into buying in secret so that Hawkeye won’t know. Hitomi just seems to get more and more expressive as time goes on, which is fucking _uncanny_ , and also a little bit awesome. Sometimes Ed has dreams, though, where she starts talking about how childish and irresponsible they are, and how Ed should take better care of Roy and make sure he eats his vegetables whether or not he can distinguish them on his plate, and then Ed wakes up feeling thoroughly unsettled, and he looks over at the dog, and he could swear she _knows_. It’s all way too fucked up for his morning brain, but, y’know. Love. Compromises.

When Hitomi finally deigns to accept her incentive, Ed pats her head and then hurries out to the living room to start shepherding cats away from the bedroom with his foot. They’ve been more or less not-completely-fucking-obnoxious today, so he makes sure to use the right foot this time.

“All right,” he says when the animals have been relegated to other regions of the apartment, “tell me more about how we’ve got the place to ourselves.”

Roy very carefully lays Ed’s book on the table, keeping it open so that he won’t lose his page. “What would you like to hear about first?” he asks. “The fact that we can shamelessly shed items of clothing on the carpet en route, or my intentions to make you scream so loudly that the neighbors complain?”

Ed doesn’t point out that their joint is so thick with assorted pet hair that the carpet in question looks like it’s molding. He also doesn’t point out that if the neighbors call the cops, the aftermath is gonna be _awkward_.

There’s not really time for much quibbling about foreplay specifics anyway, because his body is telling him _Take that gorgeous bastard now_ , and he’s not about to argue with that.

He grabs Roy’s hand and starts hauling, and there’s an ever-so-slightly _ruthless_ curve to the man’s grin that makes Ed’s heart-rate spike a little more.

And, of course, that’s the thing that’s so great about it, and the thing that makes it fucking stupid, soppy, all-consuming, all-destroying, heart-filling, blood-burning, unrepentant _love_ instead of anything else—even when Roy’s dangerous, even when he’s hungry, even when he’s rough and thrilling and commanding and possessive, and Ed feels like prey with his throat bared—it’s still so fucking _safe_. The adrenaline tears through him like gale-force winds through orchards back home, stripping all the leaves and fruit and flourishes from the branches, and he’s _naked_ , and _thin_ , and _defenseless_ —but it’s all excitement. It’s all anticipation. None of it is fear; none of it is _wrong_. Because he could trust Roy with a hell of a lot more than the task of marking him with bites and bruises just below the place his shirt collar’s going to hide his neck. Because he’s Roy’s, and Roy’s his, and even when his whole body’s going haywire, and Roy’s fingertips are digging _hard_ into the backs of his thighs—there’s so much… warmth… in it. And it’s when Roy’s kisses get softer that the whole house of cards falls down.

It’s funny, too, that Roy— _his_ Roy, _his_ privilege, _his_ prerogative—can be a sex god despite not being able to see what he’s doing. But with some time spent in scientific observation, Ed thinks he’s sorted out part of that; the longer Roy goes without sight, the less self-conscious he becomes, and the more he tries to compensate with the senses he has left. He’s always _aware_ , head angled just slightly, cautious and poised for a reaction, but he’s never more tactile, more affectionate, or more attentive than when they’re in bed. (Or on the couch. Or on the kitchen counter. Or on the furry-ass carpet. Although after the _look_ that Hawkeye gave Ed when Roy had a rug burn on his jaw from the last one, he’s not especially eager to try it again.)

“Well,” Ed says to the ceiling when he can breathe again.

“Mmm,” Roy says into Ed’s waist, which is apparently the portion of Ed’s anatomy that he has chosen for post-coital snuggling tonight. Now that it’s been matted with sweat and then mussed beyond rational belief, Roy’s hair is the kind of disaster that would make hedgehogs jealous, and his eyelashes are tickling Ed’s ribs a little. “I thought it went rather nicely, too.”

“Smartass,” Ed says.

“Fine ass,” Roy says, hugging him tighter.

“Aw, jeez,” Ed mumbles, and it’s definitely not a disadvantage that Roy can’t tell that he _still_ blushes at shit like that.

He expresses his appreciation by petting Roy’s ridiculous hair for a while. Roy hums low in his chest, closes his eyes, and smiles, and Ed thinks, with some surprise, that whatever else can be said, they really fucking _succeeded_ with this. They made it work. They make each other happy. A lot of people get along, a lot of people get by, but not everybody can share a (currently pretty damp and rumpled) bed at the end of the day and realize that pretty much every time they look at each other, they feel like they’ve come home.

It’s even more impressive given that Roy can’t actually look at him. But it’s the _right_ -ness of it that’s the point. Ed would sign up for another thousand years of this in half a heartbeat.

Roy draws a deep breath and then lifts his head, settling his chin on Ed’s hipbone, which is slightly uncomfortable and also slightly hot. He trains his gaze somewhere around the area of Ed’s nose.

“If I ask you something,” he says, “can I have your completely honest answer?”

“I’m always honest,” Ed says.

“You are,” Roy says. “But often you tailor your honesty in order to avoid hurting people with it. That’s very charitable, and I certainly don’t think you should go back to the days where you told Corporal Vemeers that the skirt really _did_ make her rear end look fat—”

“I was _twelve_ ,” Ed says. “And she _asked_.”

“—but I want the bluntest truth from you now, if you don’t mind giving it.”

Any request from Roy that comes with this long of a preface makes Ed leery, but—the trust thing. That’s an exchange, too, and Roy should always be able to believe him.

“All right,” he says. There’s a little scar here, right at Roy’s hairline by the back of his neck. Ed always forgets to ask where it came from. “Let me have it.”

Roy smiles faintly. “Do you want the country to know about us?”

All of the honest answers Ed was preparing for the questions he expected ( _Okay, yeah, it’s really fucking sexy when you use alchemy in bed_ ; _You’re a pretty good cook for a blind guy, but you burned the_ shit _out of that toast the other day, and I just ate it so I wouldn’t hurt your feelings_ ; _Sometimes you get toothpaste on your face, and I don’t tell you, and Havoc and I laugh about it, but it’s only because I know Hawkeye’ll fix it before anybody important sees_ ) turn to a block of lead in his throat.

“Ed?” Roy prompts gently.

“I—don’t know,” he says. “I just… I mean, shit, I don’t really care. It’s not like our lives are ever gonna be normal either way. It’s not like our lives have ever _been_ normal; I don’t think we’d know ‘normal’ if it walked up and slapped us in the face with a dead fish.”

“My intention was always to try to keep you out of it,” Roy says softly, trailing his fingers down Ed’s left leg to run them along the edge of the automail. It’s all scar tissue there; Ed can _kind_ of feel it, and the sensation always gives him goosebumps. “I suppose it was something of a doomed hope from the beginning, but I wanted my position to affect you as little as possible. I don’t want you to have reporters swarming your workplace; I don’t want you to worry about photographers when you’re buying lunch. I don’t want there to be impediments to you—I don’t want you to be _punished_ for your connection to me. And I should have foreseen that you would be collateral damage no matter what I said or did, but… I have always assumed that confirming it—confirming us—publicly would make it worse. I hope you’ve never thought it was because I’m ashamed of you, or because my campaign is so important that I think acknowledging you would be a threat to me politically.”

Ed’s still having trouble with the lead. It seems to be molten now.

“I want you to know,” Roy says, very quietly, touching his metal kneecap and then reaching out and feeling for the other and stroking a fingertip around it, “that if you asked me to choose between Amestris and you, I would let this country burn to the ground.”

“You don’t mean that,” Ed says.

Roy looks up— _looks_ up, and for once his blind eyes meet Ed’s _exactly_ , and Ed’s whole skeleton turns to ice. He forgets, sometimes. He forgets what Roy’s done, and what Roy’s capable of. He forgets the bones, the graves, the ash.

“I do,” Roy says. “I would.”

“Honest answer?” Ed asks, and his voice comes out a little high and a little strained, which of course Roy will hear and understand. “It doesn’t matter. I mean that. I like what we’ve got now, where we fuck with the interviewers and feel like a team, and… it just doesn’t make any difference, really. I’m not here because I give a fuck what people think; I’m here because I _want_ to be—because I want to be with _you_. So fuck ’em. If you want ’em to know, let’s tell ’em, and if not, let’s not.”

Roy raises an eyebrow. “I… see.”

“I thought we were doing an honesty thing here,” Ed says.

Roy grins. “Without any visual ability to speak of, I comprehend your point. And I find your perspective quite charming.”

“‘Charming’,” Ed mutters. “I play your stupid honesty game, I tell it like it is, and I’m _mar_ velously _char_ ming; would you _care_ for another _flute_ of cham _pagne_ , Führer _Mus_ tang?”

“Your ingratiating government toad impression is getting very accurate,” Roy says. “I apologize.”

“It’s not your fault,” Ed says.

“It is,” Roy says.

“Shut up,” Ed says. “And c’mere; I’m getting cold.”

Roy sits up, reaches around by his feet until he finds the edge of the blankets, and drags them up with him as he settles on the bed again, at Ed’s level this time.

“Better?” he asks, and one of his hands walks up Ed’s chest, then up his neck, and starts to work the tangles out of his hair.

“Pretty damn awesome,” Ed says, and that’s definitely still the honesty game.

Roy’s quiet for a while, leaning his head against Ed’s, but his eyes are ranging back and forth a little, which means he’s thinking.

“Speaking of champagne flutes and government toads,” he says, which ranks at second or third on Ed’s list of least-favorite segues of all time, “the ribbon-cutting for the new Ishvalan History Museum is this Saturday. General Armstrong is even letting us borrow Major Miles for the occasion. If you’d like to come, you’re welcome to, but there’s certainly no obligation.”

Ed probably shouldn’t say it, but— “Isn’t that kind of hypocritical? I mean, ‘Gee, good thing we practically wiped out an entire culture. Better rescue the last of it and put it in a fucking museum in the capitol city so that the oppressors can come and look at it and feel sorta bad.’”

Roy sighs. “Aptly put. But it’s a step in the right direction even to acknowledge the facts about Ishval, given our track record. It’s… part of a process. It’s a bit weak to say ‘It’s better than nothing’, but… well.”

“I’ll come,” Ed says. “It’ll be cool to see Miles again.”

“Feel free to get very drunk,” Roy says. “My plan is to schmooze for an hour or so, then retreat to the car with an extremely capacious bottle of something that could strip paint from the walls.”

“I can’t think of a better way to spend a Saturday night,” Ed says.

The honesty game could only last so long, right?

 

* * *

 

“That’s a bit hypocritical, isn’t it?” Al asks.

“ _Right_?” Ed asks.

“Elrics,” Roy says, very, very, _very_ quietly.

Al shrugs. “I’ll be there.”

 

* * *

 

“I think it’d suck less if we didn’t have to wear strangle-ties,” Ed says.

Al fusses over the strangle-tie in question like it’s the most important thing on the planet right now. “Well, _I_ think it would strangle you less if you didn’t make a nervous habit out of tugging on it. Stay _still_.”

“You just enjoy my pain,” Ed says. He’s _trying_ not to squirm, but it goes against his nature to stop moving.

“Not as much as the Führer does,” Al mutters.

Ed is… speechless.

“I heard that,” Roy says calmly from the couch in the other room.

“Just testing your hearing,” Al says.

“Like hell,” Roy says.

“If the populace can’t make coarse jokes about the Führer’s sex life,” Al says, “we might as well be a corrupt dictatorship again.”

“That’s a bit extreme,” Roy says.

“Changed my mind,” Ed says. “Strangle me with the tie and be done with it.”

 

* * *

 

“Sir,” Hawkeye says the moment Roy has felt for the edges of the door and clambered out of the car, Hitomi at his heels.

“Lieutenant-Colonel,” he says.

“The Ishvalan delegation is inside,” she says. “And you have cat hair on your uniform.”

“Really,” Roy says. “How unusual.”

“Hardly,” Hawkeye says.

“I’ve got it,” Al says, and he pulls a tiny little toothbrush-sized lint thing out of an inside pocket of his coat and starts swiping at Roy’s sleeves.

“I’m glad to see you’re still happy to serve your country,” Roy says. “Even when you think its leader is a deviant.”

“I never said that,” Al says.

Ed’s pretty sure he can feel a vein pulsing in his head. “Stop _talking about it_.”

“You’re a very selective prude, Brother,” Al says.

“I think I’m actually going to side with Edward on this one,” Hawkeye says.

Al’s lint brush disappears back into the pocket. “What a shame,” he says. “A little longer, and I think we could have made Brother’s face catch on fire.”

Roy touches Hitomi’s ear, and then they start for the stairs. “The night is still young, Alphonse, and I haven’t given up yet.”

“I hate you both,” Ed says, which is, of course, about the least-true thing it’s possible to say to anyone.

“Once again we’re in agreement,” Hawkeye says, but there’s a smile toying with the corners of her mouth, and she knows Roy and Al are both going to hear it.

On the outside, the museum is all white marble and towering pillars and architecture that fits right in with the street, but once they step through the doors, it looks like no building Ed’s ever seen in Central. It’s got the _East_ in it—the real East, the East Ed used to see in books and travelers’ grainy photographs, the East that belonged to the desert and the distant fear and the columns of smoke in the sky. It’s all pale stone walls and sharp corners, with arching open windows, and the ceilings are hung with bellying sheets of rose-colored fabric with black stripes. There’s incense in the air, and food smells Ed doesn’t recognize, and past the groups of milling people—so _many_ of them are Ishvalan, most in what must be traditional dress—there are installations everywhere, plaques and paintings and pedestals, labeled with lines upon lines of text.

Hawkeye’s steps falter as she crosses the threshold. Hitomi appears to be trying to smell and hear everything at once, and she shies a little closer to Roy’s knee. Al’s got a funny little smile on his face.

A mustachioed man wearing one of the red sashes makes a beeline for Roy. “Führer Mustang,” he says, and Roy smiles, lifting his right hand to clasp the newcomer’s before Hitomi’s nose has even nudged his wrist. “An honor, as always.”

“All mine,” Roy says.

“Lieutenant-Colonel,” the man says, taking Hawkeye’s hand in both of his. “I hope you’re well?”

“Yes,” Hawkeye says. “My apologies; I’m—staggered. This…”

“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” the man asks, casting a warm look around. “Führer Mustang has done an extraordinary thing.”

“All of the work was yours,” Roy says. “I just put my weight behind it.”

“Precisely,” the man says.

Ed kind of wants to hear more of that, but he also kind of senses that the whole conversation is above his head (which still happens a _hell_ of a lot more than he’d like; the world is so damned freakishly-tall-person-centric), and he just noticed that Al’s wandered off a little ways down along the wall, and is standing with his hands folded, staring up at a map.

“It’s the battles,” Al says as Ed comes to hover by his shoulder. “With estimates of the number of dead on both sides. Brother, this is—this is an _official_ acknowledgment—this is—Roy is _owning up_ to… it’s…”

“He didn’t write it,” a voice that still sometimes rasps in Ed’s nightmares says from behind them, and they both jump. Scar radiates a shit-ton more cold calmness than murder nowadays, but that doesn’t mean Ed’s heart’s not racing like a prize horse. “We decided that all of the exhibits should be designed by survivors, and all of the curators should have Ishvalan heritage. He backed us in all of it but stayed out of the specifics entirely.”

“That’s a bit of a surprise,” Al says. “He’s a career meddler.”

“Don’t talk shit about him,” Ed says.

“I meant that in a good way,” Al says.

There is a long and _enormously_ awkward pause.

“So, uh,” Ed says to Scar. “You picked a name yet?”

“No,” still-sort-of-Scar-for-the-purposes-of-convenience says. “Making it difficult for people to refer to you has its advantages.”

“I bet it does,” Ed says.

There is a shorter and slightly more moderately-sized pause.

“The food is over there,” Scar says, pointing towards the next room.

“ _Now_ we’re talking,” Ed says.

 

* * *

 

Miles finds them while they’re stuffing their faces with hors d’oeuvres and comparing notes. Al persists in being a shitty food critic, because he still just likes _tasting_ things so much that everything gets a pass.

“The shutterbugs are here,” Miles says. “I felt it was time to make a graceful sprint for the exit.”

“Good call,” Ed says. “How’ve you been?”

“I adjusted to the desert climate just in time to head back to Briggs,” Miles says. “Now this city feels tropical. I think I’ve finally confused my system so much that it’s just stopped trying.”

“Have some whatever-this-is,” Al says through a mouthful of whatever-it-is, offering Miles his plate. “It’s delicious.”

“Thank you,” Miles says, taking it. He glances back towards the arch leading out into the huge foyer room. Flashbulbs keep going off like fireworks. “Is it a betrayal of my allegiance to the Amestrian military to leave the Führer to the press?”

“If you wanna know about the best practices for soldiers,” Ed says, “you’re asking the wrong guy.” Miles does not look encouraged. To be fair, even without the snow glasses on, Miles has a talent for not looking like much in particular. Ed always assumed that people’s facial features just kind of _froze_ after a while at Briggs, but now he’s thinking that the imperturbable neutrality must be something they teach up there. “Don’t worry, though. Roy can take care of himself. Weirdly enough, he actually always looks _good_ in the stupid pictures, because he’s always sort of staring a little off-center, and it makes it seem like he can’t be bothered to pose because he’s too busy nobly contemplating the greater good or some shit.”

“What a ringing endorsement,” Miles says.

Ed shrugs. “I wouldn’t kiss his ass even when he _did_ sign my paychecks.”

“I was under the impression,” Al says innocently, “that you’re fairly intimately acquainted with his a—”

“ _Al_!” Ed says so loud that several people turn around.

 

* * *

 

By the time they all pile back into the car, and Breda starts to drive them home, Ed’s brain is buzzing with tiredness. He leans his head against Roy’s shoulder; Hitomi had the same idea, and is resting hers on Roy’s knee. Ed should probably be offended by the fact that Roy very calmly starts to pet them both.

“That was quite educational,” Al says.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Roy says.

“I met a really hot Ishvalan diplomat,” Breda says.

“I’m glad to hear that, too,” Roy says.

“Except for the fact that I didn’t get her number,” Breda says.

“Lieutenant,” Roy says, “I regret to inform you that you have absolutely no game.”

Breda snorts. “See, that used to be cutting—”

“He can’t see,” Ed cuts in.

“—but now you’re basically _married_ , so it’s not.”

Ed’s… never really thought about it before. Not in so many words; not concretely. Marriage is for people who want to have a big, meaningful ceremony and then buy a house and then have kids and stuff. Isn’t it?

“That should make it more injurious still,” Roy says. “Even in a long-term, monogamous relationship, I’m getting a dozen times more action than you could dream of.”

“It mathematically cannot be a _dozen_ times,” Breda says.

“Have you met them?” Al asks.

“Since this is _apparently_ the topic of the evening,” Ed says into Roy’s shoulder, “you might ’s well know I was thinking of jumping into one of those pictures and slipping you some tongue to let people know about us, but… I dunno. Didn’t seem right.”

Roy’s arm wraps around him, and Roy’s mouth grazes his forehead. “If you want to make a spectacle of it, see me off on the front steps of Central Command tomorrow and kiss me goodbye.”

“I don’t really,” Ed mumbles. “I just… well, shit. People ought to know that you and I _both_ have more game than Breda.”

“You both suck,” Breda says. “Literally, I guess.”

“That’s treason,” Roy says. “And in that case—” He kisses the bridge of Ed’s nose. “—let’s just start telling the journalists the truth.”

Ed thinks it over.

“Okay,” he says.

“When we get home,” Al says, “I’m going to start booby-trapping the front walk.”

Breda clears his throat loudly. “While we’re on the topic of breasts,” he says, “how about rewarding me for years of loyal service by getting me that chick’s digits?”

Roy adopts a solemn expression. “There are some things, Lieutenant, that a man has to do on his own.”

 

* * *

 

Three nights later, as Ed’s trudging home wishing automail and alchemy would join hands and jump off a _bridge_ so that he wouldn’t have to wring his brain dry and wrack it raw, the part of him that will never stop seeing monsters and murderers in every shadow hears scuffling footsteps in an alley once he’s past.

He doesn’t turn, and he doesn’t change his pace, but he’s _waiting_.

The footsteps start to trail him. He should amend that: the footsteps start to trail him _obviously_. This is perhaps the most incompetent tail on the face of the planet; the only way they could be clumsier would be if they actually announced themse—

“Mr. Elric!”

Well, shit.

He just wants to go home and pull a blanket over his head until Roy gets in and comes over and massages his back and tells him that tomorrow will be better, which might not be true but definitely sounds good at the time. Instead he glances over his shoulder.

“Yeah?”

“Mr. Elric,” the woman says, pushing her glasses up her nose with the back of her wrist in order to keep her pen poised above her notepad. “I’m Leticia Garwin, from _Eye on Amestris_ —I only need a moment of your time.”

“Look, lady,” Ed says. “I do… Wait, aren’t you the one that ambushed Roy in the cafeteria?”

Leticia Garwin has frighteningly intense eyes. “So you _are_ on a first-name basis with the Führer.”

“It’s kinda old news that we live in the same place,” Ed says, pushing his hair back. “But like I was saying, I really don’t feel li—”

“Do you have a comment on the article in today’s _Central Sun_?” she asks.

“Uh, no,” Ed says. “Because I have no idea what it says.”

Leticia makes a tabloid appear out of _nowhere_. Once Ed’s recovered from the minor heart attack, he takes the offered newspaper carefully—can’t get too close to these people; they might start sucking blood next—and tilts it towards the nearest streetlamp to read.

It’s another typical informal-gushing-about-Roy article, as far as he can tell—lots of stuff about politics, policy this, program that, a bit about how great the new museum is, a hilariously noteworthy mention of Roy’s ‘dark, serious, sightless eyes’. And then, right at the end—

_“There’s another thing I wanted to mention,” the Führer says moments before he reaches the boardroom. “Regarding Edward Elric.” “The rumors,” I say. “They’re getting ridiculous, aren’t they?” “Not really,” the Führer says. “I didn’t want my personal life to become a distraction—but it seems to be too late for that, and honestly I should have known it would be inevitable. In any case, there’s not much point in playing coy now.” “Sir,” I say, “what do you mean?” “There’s no reason it should be a secret,” the Führer says, “that Edward is the reason I get up in the morning, and the reason I come here more or less rational and sane, and the reason I can function at all. I don’t want it to seem that I’m ashamed of that—on the contrary, I feel extraordinarily privileged knowing that I am permitted to spend the rest of my life with him. To say that I am deeply in love and always will be is understating matters somewhat, and I don’t see any reason to hide something so overpoweringly… good.” The Führer lays a hand on the door and slides it down until his fingers reach the handle. “Please do have a nice day,” he says. “I can hardly avoid it, myself, and now you know why.”_

Ed seems to have a thing in his throat. It might be an insect. Or a small amphibian.

“Well?” Leticia Garwin says, beaming. She’s almost bouncing on the balls of her feet.

Ed clears his throat twice.

“No comment,” he says. “Don’t have time. Gotta go home and… stuff. There’s somebody I’ve gotta go hit a couple times.  And then kiss a lot.”

“And who’s that?” Leticia asks, eyes practically glowing in the dark.

Ed jams the dumb tabloid into his bag and turns on his heel.  “No comment.”

“Is it the Führer?” Leticia calls after him.

“No comment!” he shouts back as he takes off at a run.

 

* * *

 

His stamina’s not quite what it used to be, but he still makes it home in pretty good time, at a pretty good clip, with a pretty good grin making his cheeks start to ache.  The lock on the door makes a concerted effort to keep him out, and then the threshold makes a concerted effort to trip him so that he falls flat on his face, but neither of them is _quite_ stubborn enough to stop him from catapulting across the room and flinging himself at Roy.

Al sighs like a particularly irritated martyr, but Roy doesn’t even look surprised to find himself with an armful of Ed.

“I take it you read it,” Roy says.

“Sure did,” Ed says.  He nestles his face into Roy’s chest.  “ _Bastard_.”

“Your bastard,” Roy says, tangling a hand in his hair.  “As long as you’ll have me.”

Ed’s face is really starting to hurt from all the smiling.  “How’s forever sound?”

“Perfect,” Roy says.

“Good,” Ed says.

“ _Vomit_ ,” Al says.


End file.
